Journeyman Warsmith

by Chris Hollaway

  Before he could open the door to the street outside, Kevon felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Carlo standing behind him.

  “Finish getting ready, and bring the boy back here for supper,” the Blademaster suggested, smiling. “He’s got an appointment to keep, as I recall.”

  Kevon nodded, remembering the plan to have Bertus test for Novice when they returned from the West.

  “If I knew more about your training, I would consider having you test for Adept,” Carlo added.

  Kevon shook his head. “I could pass the Trial, but I would not have earned it, not really.”

  Carlo frowned, but let the statement lie. “Time enough for that after we leave tomorrow. Bring the boy.” The Blademaster turned and made his way back to the gathering.

  Kevon stood outside waiting for his borrowed horse, squinting in the glare of noontime. He considered going back inside to eat something, but decided against it. There was still much to be done, and he needed time away from the Guild after the ceremony.

  After the short ride back to the palace compound, Kevon hurried directly to his quarters from the stable. He arranged his belongings so that they could be easily packed when he returned, mentally leaving space for the items he should have picked up from the Guild while he was there earlier.

  When he finished, Kevon headed for the kitchen, keeping a lookout for Bertus on the way. He spotted his friend coming up the passageway from the vicinity of Mirsa’s quarters.

  “Someone’s been anxious to see you…” Kevon commented as his young friend caught up and matched strides with him.

  “It’s not like that… really,” Bertus protested, wide-eyed and blushing. “I was just…”

  “I meant Carlo,” Kevon chuckled. “He wants to have your Trial this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Right.” Bertus settled into a more confident walking rhythm, and Kevon could almost feel the boy’s training taking back over.

  Kevon smiled. Today’s match in the crowded Guildhall would be a far cry from the stone-lined sand pits they had practiced in by Mage-light in the refuges Mirsa had crafted. The nightly sessions had been one of the few outlets for the boy’s shock and outrage at Waine’s death, and as he’d begun to control those powerful emotions, his skill became markedly more impressive. Bertus had never been able to land a strike due to Kevon’s magically assisted defense, but Kevon felt sorry for the Novice that would have to face his friend in the hours to come.

  The two stopped in the kitchen and ate and talked with the servants for a few minutes. Palatial leftovers, it seemed, were better than most fancy inn food. Once their hunger was satisfied, they returned to their respective quarters to prepare for the afternoon festivities.

  The Warsmith paced around the room, more nervous for Bertus than he had been before his own trial for Seeker. His own Novice Trial had been completely unexpected, so it felt only natural to fret for Bertus, in spite of the boy’s obvious talent.

  Minutes later, the same cadet that had escorted Kevon to the Guildhall earlier arrived at the door to his chamber, accompanied by Bertus and Mirsa. “Your full contingent is waiting at the stables, and the Commander is ready for the Trial to begin.”

  Kevon and his friends followed the cadet through the narrow hallways, Mirsa positioning herself between the others so that passersby bearing arms could be deflected away from her.

  “Magi do not usually attend these Guild functions,” Kevon teased as they reached the stables and the horses were brought around. “Some might consider it taboo?”

  “I would not normally accept an invitation to such a barbaric rite,” Mirsa responded haughtily, “But the survivors of the patrol seem to have been impressed by my performance, and practically insisted. Warrior - Mage relations are strained enough as it is, not purposefully offending them seemed to be the proper course of action.”

  Kevon nodded in agreement. Mutual respect between the Guilds was grudging at the best of times, this small act could smooth the ruffled feathers of some of the Guild purists that had voiced concern about the party’s return to the tower.

  Two of the four guards in the escort Kevon recognized as Mirsa’s personal attendants from the company that they’d ventured west with. He recalled that one of the other four had died during the first attack, defending her.

  Within moments they were mounted and making best possible speed down the crowded afternoon streets that led to the Warrior’s Guild. Two riders ahead of Mirsa shouting and jostling pedestrians off to the side of the procession, two more flanking her, and Kevon and Bertus following as the crowd milled back together behind them.

  The riders reached the Guild entrance and formed into a half-circle around the doorway, shielding the Wizard as she dismounted. Grooms led away their horses, and the group crowded around Mirsa protectively as she entered the building.

  As they emerged from the narrow hallway into the common area, Mirsa’s protectors spread out so that she could see, and be seen. All eyes in the room were fixed on her. Though not as provocatively attired or coiffed as she had been for dinner with Prince Alacrit, she had dressed more for the company she was with than she would have normally. The short black cape draped over her shoulders covered little more than her tightly laced bodice, and the straps winding up her legs from her leather sandals nearly to the bottom of her mid-length black skirt seemed to mark her more as barmaid than Magi.

  “Milady,” a Blademaster said, stepping forward from a knot of Warriors nearest them, “You honor us with your presence.” He extended his palms in a gesture that showed he neither bore, nor wore any metal.

  She smiled and extended her hand. “Ordinarily I might not, but your brother Waine was a close friend, as are Kevon and Bertus.”

  The Blademaster took her hand and kissed it, a gesture far more courtly than normally expected here. “We have a table up front reserved for you and your party, if you would follow me?”

  “Thank you,” Mirsa answered, “And please, join us.”

  The Blademaster bowed and turned, leading them through the room, as other Warriors inched away but stared at Mirsa and her following as they passed by.

  “I would not normally condone violence of this nature,” Mirsa remarked as they neared the empty table, loud enough for half the room to hear. “But Bertus could always use a little more sense knocked into him.”

  Warriors nearby roared with laughter at the taunt, and the room settled to its usual muted level of rowdiness, the palpable apprehension defused by her well-timed remark. Bertus was introduced to the Novice he would be facing, and the two of them moved over to the far side of the sand-covered arena to prepare.

  “A mite different than the intrigues of Palace life?” the Blademaster asked Mirsa, doing his best to hold her attention.

  “Where blood is shed within these walls, favor is gained or lost in much the same way,” Mirsa answered. “The attacks are more subtle, but we are not so different as many believe.”

  The room quieted and attention turned from Mirsa and the readying combatants to Carlo as he entered from a side hallway.

  “Starting without me, Ralen?” the Commander asked, taking a seat between the other Blademaster and Kevon.

  “Never, Sir,” Ralen answered, clapping Carlo on the shoulder and smiling. “They haven’t even warmed up yet. Get the Commander a drink!” He yelled over his shoulder. “Besides, it’s always a while before a new recruit gets an opening on one of our Novices. You might want to nap and come back later.”

  “I seem to recall a recruit that passed Trial against a Seeker in Eastport, and the very same recruit later defeated a Blademaster, as a Seeker, in ritual combat,” Carlo remarked.

  “A fluke,” Ralen scoffed. “Nothing to do with what we have here.”

  “Unless our recruit was trained by that Seeker?” Carlo asked, pointing to Kevon.

  “Well, I…” Ralen stammered.

  “Hush,” Carlo chided. “They’re ready to begin.”

  Bertus swung his wooden blade in
wobbly arcs around his body, limbering up. Laughter bubbled up from the crowd, and a determined look crept onto his face, his swings tightened a little before he stopped and began stretching out.

  The Novice that he was challenging hopped lightly from one foot to another, flourishing his practice sword between calls to friends in the audience. Wagers were being made back toward the center of the room, but Kevon sat, watching, and waiting.

  Bertus looked, wide-eyed, to the table where his friends sat, and the jeering and catcalls started anew. Ralen shot a smug look at Carlo, who sat stone-faced, watching only the two in the ring.

  “Let the Trial begin!” Blademaster Ralen shouted over the chaos that surrounded them, and the noise dropped to murmurs and whispers.

  The combatants turned to face each other, swords raised. Bertus stood almost correctly in a defensive stance that Kevon knew his friend was experienced enough in to get right. The Seeker smiled, but remained silent.

  The Novice circled around to Bertus’ left, trying to force Bertus to either overcompensate, or allow the Novice to slip further around the perceived weakness in the boy’s guard.

  Bertus turned in response, quick, jerky steps that shored up his stance in one moment, but left an opening the next. His breathing was erratic, uncontrolled, something Kevon knew was an act. Bertus had faced orcs and held his composure better than this.

  The Novice, sure of Bertus’s weakness, tensed a moment before attacking.

  Bertus, used to parrying Kevon’s quicker strikes, shifted his grip and batted his opponent’s sword up with a swift underhand swing. A stutter-step for distraction, and the boy’s front leg slammed into the Novice’s gut. Bertus’s sword flashed down and back up as he spun, his follow-through slashing over the doubled-over Novice to hammer into his opponent’s practice sword and send it clattering out of the arena into a nearby weapon stand.

  Bertus retreated and stood, stance corrected, three sword lengths away from the groaning Novice. He lowered his practice sword and glanced aside to the tables where Mirsa and the Blademasters sat. The Novice dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach. Carlo shook his head and grunted.

  “All welcome Novice Bertus!” Ralen shouted, breaking the strained silence.

  Bertus smiled and cast aside his wooden sword, wading through the sand pit toward the center of the room, rolling up his tunic sleeve as he went. Celebrating onlookers surged toward him. The new Novice half-yelped, half-laughed as Carlo burned the sword-brand onto his arm.

  “Enjoy your evening,” Carlo rumbled, slapping Bertus on the back. “We leave the city at first light.”

  Chapter 15

  The dull throbbing behind Kevon’s eyes reminded him why he did not usually drink so heavily. As he woke, he instantly regretted not returning to the palace with Carlo and Mirsa. The pounding on his chamber door beat a violent counterpoint to the dark melody in his already aching head.

  The Seeker staggered to the door, eyes opened only enough to keep from blundering into the sharp-cornered table near it.

  “Get moving, lad!” Carlo thundered as Kevon opened the door a crack. “Any one of these soldiers would kill for the chance to go on this mission. I’ve already got a fresh Novice and a sorceress to deal with, I don’t need a bleary-eyed laggard!”

  “One moment?” Kevon asked as he shut the door. He splashed water on his face, and washed up quickly. He shrugged into his outer tunic, strapped on his weapons, and hefted the rest of the gear that was already in saddlebags on and under the table. Kevon opened the door wide and stifled a yawn. “Let’s go.”

  The Novice was waiting at the stables, good-naturedly barking orders at the grooms, who were finished readying their three mounts. Kevon noted the way Bertus wore his sword and Waine’s knife, exactly the way the fallen Adept had. The Seeker bit his lip, saying nothing.

  “The witch is meeting us at the gate,” Carlo said, tightening a strap on his saddle before climbing up. “Let’s not make her wait, shall we?”

  The Warsmith nodded, pushing down the apprehension that welled up inside him. Carlo’s attitude toward magic users had never been a positive one, but as of late had grown even more bitter. He was not sure how well the Blademaster would take the news of Kevon’s secret. “Right,” he agreed, and finished securing his packs.

  Bertus and Carlo were already urging their steeds out into the courtyard before Kevon’s foot found the stirrup. Kevon swore under his breath and flicked the ends of his reins. The stallion surged forward, eager to rejoin the others.

  Mirsa was already waiting at the palace gate, upon a black stallion that was nearly a match for Carlo’s warhorse. She looked like a child astride the larger horse, a marked difference from the daintier mares she had brought upon the last outing. Prince Alacrit and a half-dozen guards waited beside her, the monarch greeted each of them in turn, and wished them well before he was escorted back into the palace.

  The Blademaster led the way out of the palace compound, followed by Kevon and Bertus. Mirsa fell in behind them, as they cantered through the nearly empty morning streets. After a brief stop at the western gates to relay a few final orders to Marco and the others assuming command in his stead, the Blademaster led the group out of the city at a gallop.

  By midday, they had ridden through farmland that had begun to be tended again, and beyond into lands that nature was determined to reclaim for its own. Carlo called a halt, and Bertus tended to the horses as Kevon rationed out food.

  “I trust we are far enough from unworthy ears,” Carlo began, “That you can tell me just what in the blazes we are doing out here.”

  “That, we are.” Kevon replied. “We’re going to slay an Orclord.”

  Carlo’s face whitened. “Waine…”

  “Yes,” Kevon answered. “We were unprepared. Knowing now what we face, it should be much simpler.”

  “Simpler!” Carlo yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. “What’s simple about killing an Orclord? Have you ever heard the stories? Are you daft?”

  “We would have killed it last time, but for a lack of the proper tools,” Kevon responded, lowering his voice, trying to control the conversation. “We now have those tools, and we will not fail.”

  “I’m not that much better than Waine with a blade, not when a beast like that is part of the bargain,” Carlo grumbled. “You’d better have something else you’re depending on, boy.”

  “We do…” Bertus chimed in, walking back over from the horses to collect his lunch.

  “We do…” Kevon agreed, glaring at Bertus, “But we’ll save that talk for this evening. We still have much farther to go today, and Carlo may want to sleep on this news rather than ride.”

  Bertus nodded, then smiled at Carlo’s scowl.

  The Commander stomped over by the horses and finished his rations as the others sat and talked.

  “Do you think Carlo will accept your explanation?” Mirsa asked, forehead lined with concern. “Especially considering how long you’ve kept it from him?”

  The Warsmith stared toward where Carlo sat sharpening his sword. “He’ll have to… We can’t afford to lose anyone on this trip. He’s helped me through so much…”

  “So the betrayal, to him, would seem deeper?” Mirsa whispered.

  “The thought had occurred to me,” Kevon admitted. “But you two, and Waine, were accepting enough. I can only hope…”

  “We haven’t lived a lifetime in opposition to the idea,” Mirsa remarked. “He has.”

  Kevon finished the last few bites of his suddenly tasteless lunch, dusted the crumbs from his cloak, and stood up. “I can only hope,” he repeated, more for himself than the others. He shouldered the saddlebags with the provisions and trudged back over to the horses to affix them back to his saddle.

  Carlo mounted up and was back on the road before Kevon was done tightening up his straps, or the others were even finished eating.

  The Seeker sighed and made sure the reins and rigging for Mirsa’s stallion was secure, and helpe
d her up into the saddle while Bertus checked his own gear. The two Warriors stepped up in to their own saddles, and set out after the Blademaster.

  Dusk came swiftly, hastened by a line of dark clouds scudding across the western horizon.

  Kevon, Mirsa, and Bertus came upon Carlo waiting in the road, as he had done several times during the afternoon.

  “Well, your Wizardness… are you going to do something about a shelter for the night?” Carlo grunted at Mirsa.

  “No,” Kevon shot back. “She’s not.” The Seeker swung down from his horse, and handed his reins to Bertus. “I am.”

  Without waiting for Carlo’s response, Kevon stepped off the road, and knelt down to place his palm on a patch of cool, rocky ground. Kevon expended a short burst of magic to force his awareness downward, and gathered in the sympathetic energy as he drew in a mental picture of the ground below. The power built, and Kevon focused it into molding a ramp down and away from the roadway, wide enough for two horses to walk side by side. The walkway led down about twenty feet, and ended in a circular chamber. “The horses will need blinders,” Kevon commented, standing. “Mirsa can finish the job, she’s better at the fine details…”

  “Kevon!” Bertus cried, snapping the Mage’s attention back to the group.

  Carlo’s sword-thrust swept past Kevon as the Seeker side-stepped at the last second.

  “Stop!” Kevon shouted, focusing a Movement rune to aid his leap backward to clear the Blademaster’s sword-range. “You wanted to know…”

  “I almost killed you when I thought you were a thief,” Carlo snarled, pausing only momentarily. “Worse, you’re a Mage.” The commander’s face contorted with rage as he rushed after Kevon, several more times, each time falling short as his quarry leapt away with unnatural speed.

  “Stop!” Kevon repeated, leaping over the opening in the earth he’d made moments earlier, trying to separate himself from his attacker. “We don’t have to do this!”

  “Stay still for a bit, we needn’t worry about it,” Carlo retorted, circling around toward the road, then turning to dash back to his horse, and his crossbow.